The Lark Ascending
by cassiemortmain
Summary: A new AU Sybil x Tom story set during World War I, which takes Tom to the front line as a journalist and Sybil to London to work as a nurse. Will they find each other in the chaos of war?


_Author's note_ -

This is a fic I've had in mind for Sybil x Tom for some time, telling quite a different story of their lives during the Great War than the one we saw on screen. I was inspired to post it by the recent Rock the WWI AU challenge on Tumblr.

I'm beginning with a prologue, to set the scene with some S/T missing moments written for this AU, dating from the time before this story really begins.

As always, I'd love to know what you think! :)

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><p><strong>Prologue - He is joy, awake, aglow<strong>

From the moment he saw her lying bleeding on the Ripon cobblestones, Tom Branson knew he was in love with Lady Sybil Crawley. Totally, completely, hopelessly in love.

Of course, it was easy to notice her beauty and vivacity – any fool could see how attractive she was. But from their very first conversation in the car, when she'd wondered aloud about him being a revolutionary chauffeur, he'd seen something more in her. He'd caught a glimpse that day of the woman she was becoming, curious about the world, wanting to make a difference, striving to escape the golden cage of her life as an Earl's daughter, and that glimpse set her apart from all the other upper class employers, and their daughters, he had ever known.

It took the terror of seeing her knocked unconscious at the Count, not knowing if she'd recover, for him to realise what had been in his heart for almost a year. Once he drove her back to Downton Abbey and watched Matthew help her inside, he could not rest until Lady Mary sent word to him, later that evening, that she was recovering well.

Two days later, Tom was working on the Renault when he heard footsteps outside the garage door. Lifting his head, he was surprised and amazed to see Sybil, a small bandage on her head but otherwise seemingly unharmed, appear before him.

"Lady Sybil? I trust you are feeling better?"

"Yes, Branson, thank you. Much better."

"I'm very glad to hear it, milady."

"Branson... well, I wanted to say something. I know I did the wrong thing, deceiving you the way I did about where I wanted you to take me. I didn't stop to think what it could mean for you if anything happened, I was just so excited to be part of the by-election. It was selfish of me, and I want to apologise."

"Thank you, milady. I appreciate that."

"Papa threatened to dismiss you, but I told him I wouldn't accept that, because it was all my fault."

This was news to him. He'd fully expected to be thrown out on his ear by Lord Grantham when summoned to see him the next day, and had been surprised to be let off with a stern warning about taking his Lordship's youngest daughter anywhere alone in future without his express permission.

"Lady Sybil, I didn't know you had spoken to your father about me..."

"Don't be silly, Branson. We're friends, aren't we? I couldn't let you be punished for something I tricked you into." She smiled at him, tilting her head to one side.

"Thank you, milady. I'm very happy to see you've made a good recovery from your fall." He kept his head down, not daring to meet her eyes for fear of what he might reveal.

That was the first time she visited him in the garage for any reason other than to plan a journey by road. From then on, nothing would be the same again, not for him.

* * *

><p>The way Sybil had responded when, in the afterglow of Gwen's success, Tom had dared to touch her hand at the garden party a few weeks later... he could still remember the way his heart had thumped in his chest as she had twined her lace-gloved fingers around his. When she looked down at their linked hands, then back up at him, he began to speak.<p>

"I don't suppose that..."

If only he'd been able to finish that sentence! _That you'd care to take a walk with me, that I could hold you, that I could kiss you... _

The little look she had given him as she walked away had sent him soaring to the clouds, and he'd still been walking on air as he headed back to his cottage later when the party was brought to a premature end. For a while, he almost forgot Lord Grantham's momentous announcement in the rush of hope he felt, dreaming that one day she might return his feelings.

The war soon settled into one of relentless attrition, neither side able to outmanouevre the other in the "Race to the Sea" and instead settling down into the horrors of trench warfare. Lord Grantham's confident expectation, along with many others of his kind, that the fighting would all be over by Christmas had proved foolishly optimistic, and Sybil's visits to the garage became more frequent as 1914 turned into 1915 with no end in sight.

The terrible campaign in the Dardanelles shook her faith in the British government, and she and Tom discussed their conduct of the war more critically, she told him, than she would ever have dared do with her family. Watching her animated face and hands as she asked questions and shared her thoughts with him, sitting on the bench with her legs swinging, or resting up against one of the cars, he could see that the girl of the garden party was rapidly growing into the bright and passionate woman he'd seen in her since their first meeting. A woman who invaded his heart and occupied his dreams, sleeping and waking.

He managed to keep his overwhelming feelings for her in check, acting as a friend and, when asked, a teacher, sharing his thoughts on the war and on what it might mean for the society they knew. Sometimes, he would think he saw something in her eyes, something that meant she was thinking of him as more than just the chauffeur – as a _man_ – which helped keep his hopes alive.

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><p>One afternoon in the autumn of 1915, Tom found Sybil waiting for him in the garage, tears falling down her face.<p>

"Branson, oh thank goodness you're back, I really needed to talk to someone and you were the first person I thought of. I just heard that Vivian McDonald was killed in action at Loos. I never knew anyone who died before! Oh, it's so sad, such a tragic waste."

"Milady, I'm so sorry to hear that. I'm sure he was a good man, he didn't deserve to die."

He felt a shaft of jealousy lance through his heart. _Who was this McDonald fellow, what was he to her?_ He tried to suppress his feelings and put her first, to be there for her, however painful it might be for him. Without even realising it, she eased his fears.

"I didn't really know him that well, I hadn't seen him since before the war, during my Season. But it makes things feel so close to home, Branson, when someone one knows is killed. Does it sound silly of me?"

"Not at all, milady. It's only natural to feel things more strongly when you have a personal connection to them."

"You do understand, don't you? I knew you would."

Imperceptibly, Sybil had moved closer to Tom during their conversation. This time, it was she who reached out to take his hand in his. He noticed that her hand wasn't enclosed by a glove, and that her skin was touching his as never before.

As she had done at the garden party, she looked down at their linked hands, then back up at him. Her face was like a flower, a magnolia with a flush of vermilion at its heart, tears like dewdrops still on her cheeks. For an endless moment, their eyes locked, before she pulled away and made an awkward departure.

He didn't see much of her for a few weeks after that. She came again to visit him at Christmas, but kept her distance, setting a pattern for their next few encounters. He was scrupulously correct in his interactions with her, wanting her to feel at ease in his presence again, and he seemed to have some success. Before long, they were talking and laughing together easily, and he tried to content himself with that.

* * *

><p>The spring of 1916 came, bringing rumours of a massive offensive planned by the Allies for the summer. It seemed as if the entire nation held its breath, waiting for the strike.<p>

But Tom was thinking about other battlefields – he'd just had time to read a letter from home after a busy day, which told him that his cousin Bill had been killed in the Easter Rising. The Rising – a short and bloody rout, a hope of independence for Ireland barely kindled before being brutally crushed in the streets of Dublin.

He was leaning against the garage wall, the setting sun striking his bowed head and lighting his fair hair to gold, when Sybil found him.

"Branson, what is it? Are you all right?"

"Lady Sybil..." He stood up, raking a hand through his hair and starting to rebutton his waistcoat, which was hanging loose from his shoulders.

"I'm sorry, milady. How can I help you?"

"Branson, please, tell me what's wrong. Maybe I can help."

He looked up at her, knowing she would be able to see the tears streaking his cheeks. "I've just heard, my cousin was killed during the Rising. He wasn't even involved in the fighting, just an innocent bystander."

She stepped forward, concern written all over her face. "I'm so sorry Branson, I'm so very sorry. I hope the authorities ensure justice is done to whomever did this."

For some reason, that made him angry at her, a visceral anger that rose up and burst out of him. Before he could stop himself, he exploded.

"Whoever did this? Milady, he was killed by the British Army! An unarmed man, walking down North King Street, shot dead in cold blood, for no other reason than a soldier thought he was probably a rebel. What kind of justice can our family expect after that!"

Tom had always been so careful to hide his feelings from her, to wear the correct mask of an employee, respectful and courteous, and he could see that he'd shocked Sybil with his outburst.

But she had shocked him even more with the way she responded. Instead of stepping back, instead of walking away, she moved closer to him, her own expression full of anguish.

"Brans... Tom, I'm so sorry, I don't know what to say."

She lifted her hand and deliberately pulled off her satin evening glove, dropping it on the ground as she touched his face, eyes locking into his. Her thumb ran back and forth over his cheek, and the direct contact, and her use of his given name, sent sparks leaping through his veins. Before he could stop himself, he had turned his face into her hand. Placing a kiss on her palm, he felt her warmth travel from his lips throughout his whole body.

Instead of pulling away, as she ought to have done, she ran her hand down his cheek, and for a split second she seemed to be caressing him as her fingers strayed into his hairline above his ear. He held his breath, unwilling to make any movement that might startle her, and his heart seemed too large for his chest as it sang her name.

She was breathing fast, and the light in her eyes told him she knew, as well as he did, the significance of what was happening. Just as it seemed as if the barriers between them were tumbling down, a bird called outside and, in a moment, the light was extinguished. Moving away from him, she murmured her goodnights and almost ran from the garage, leaving her glove behind in her confusion.

As she had before, she kept her distance from him for a few weeks, not visiting him and travelling in the car only with her mother or sisters. He agonised over what he had done, going over and over it in his mind. Surely he hadn't imagined what he had seen in her eyes?

* * *

><p>A few weeks later, the three Crawley girls were invited to a Midsummer's Eve party at the home of a neighbouring family, the Callender-Becketts, to mark the return home of their only son, who had suffered an injury significant enough to rule him out of any further fighting. Tom expected to be asked to drive them, but instead Sir Anthony Strallan, their neighbour who was also attending the party, arranged for his car to stop at Downton Abbey for Sybil and her sisters on the way there and back.<p>

It was late. Unable to sleep, Tom had dressed and come back to the garage. He was working on one of the cars by lamplight when he heard the garage door rattle. Sybil came in, and from her demeanour he guessed she had drunk a glass of champagne.

"Branson? Are you... oh, there you are. I've been to a party."

"I know, milady. Did you have a pleasant evening?"

She sighed. "Oh yes, I suppose so. I've spent most of the night waltzing away with old buffers who couldn't keep up with me. All the men who used to come to these parties are away fighting, I suppose."

She was twisting her hands together in front of her dress, an elegant creation in midnight blue silk that skimmed over her form like the draperies of a classical statue. Her hair was coming down from the high knot created so carefully by Anna for the evening, trailing in curls down her neck, and the pearl necklace and earrings she was wearing were outshone by the creamy skin of her shoulders and arms. To Tom, she was Aphrodite, the divine embodiment of love, and she took his breath away.

"Branson, I don't want to end the evening without dancing with a man under 65. Will you dance with me?"

She reached out to him. The look on her face was both imperious and entreating, and wholly irresistible, and he responded the only way he could – by taking her hand. As they had before, her ungloved fingers twined around his, and their touch sent his skin tingling as he rested his other hand on her back.

"But we've no music, milady."

"That doesn't matter."

Her husky alto voice began to hum one of the Strauss waltzes as they danced together, turning slowly in the light of the lamp above their heads. She looked up at him, her eyes shimmering like sunlight on the ocean, and he felt the hand she had rested on his shoulder move up to brush across the back of his neck.

"Come on, Branson, you're meant to be leading! And one, two, three..." she encouraged.

"Yes, milady – I'm sorry, I've never been much of a dancer, at least not like this."

"Come closer, take me with you."

She held his hand more tightly and moved nearer to him. He followed her lead and moved his arm further around her, bringing her body into contact with his own. Breathing in her lilac scent, he felt his senses spinning.

This time, when their eyes met, neither one looked away. Their steps slowed, and Tom felt a rush of tenderness sweep through him as Sybil murmured his name and pulled his face down to hers, her eyes fluttering closed.

Their kiss was gentle at first. He felt as if he were holding something so precious, he hardly dared touch her. Then, she tightened her arms around his neck and moaned into his mouth, and something darker, wilder was unleashed inside him.

He grabbed her waist, pulling her closer. She ran her fingers through his hair, pressing herself against him. When his tongue slid between her lips, he was delighted to find hers moving to meet him, responding to him eagerly, deepening their kiss. Time seemed suspended, the stars above their heads frozen in their tracks through the heavens, a fleeting taste of eternity that he would never forget.

Finally, their kiss broke and they stared into each other's eyes. Then, as if scalded, Sybil jumped away from him.

"Tom, I shouldn't have... I mean, Branson. Can we please forget this ever happened? I'm sorry, I'm so sorry..."

Just as Tom was reaching for her hand, he heard a noise and was horrified to see they were no longer alone.

"Sybil? What on earth are you doing out here? Come inside at once, or I'll tell Papa." Lady Mary's eyes flashed fire as she held out her hand to her little sister. "Sybil, what's been happening here? I demand to know at once."

"Nothing, Mary, honestly. I was just out here to look for... my riding crop, and To... Branson was helping me find it."

"At eleven o'clock at night? My, what devoted service." She looked at Tom, this time with a look that would have frozen the equatorial ocean.

"I'm sorry, milady. It's true, I was just helping Lady Sybil find something she had lost. Unfortunately, we didn't find it."

He held his breath – how much had Lady Mary seen? She nodded, slowly, and he managed to exhale.

"I expect it's just your nonsense, isn't it Sybil? I told you not to have a glass of champagne, you're not used to it. Come on, I'm taking you to bed. At once!"

He heard Mary speak in a stern voice as she dragged Sybil away –

"What were you thinking, Sybil? Don't you care about your reputation? Out here, at night, alone with the chauffeur?"

"I'm sorry, Mary, I wasn't thinking, I just..."

"Well, see that it never happens again. Promise me!"

He got no sleep at all that night. When dawn broke, he made a vow to himself.

The next time he was alone with her, he would speak. Tell her how he felt, pledge himself to her, pour out his heart and soul at her feet. He was sure she must share his feelings – she could not have kissed him like that without meaning it!

Tom knew he was taking a tremendous risk, that one word from Sybil afterwards would see him dismissed in disgrace. But he also knew that, if he didn't speak, he'd regret it for the rest of his life.

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><p><em>AN - _

A historical note:

The campaign in the Dardanelles, also known as the Gallipoli campaign, was one of the greatest Allied failures in World War I. More than 100,000 soldiers were believed killed on both sides in just eight months, with no strategic gains whatsoever. It's seen as a campaign of national significance for the Turks and their general Mustafa Kemal (Ataturk), who led the founding of a secular republic in the aftermath of the Ottoman Empire's collapse. It's also important for Australia and New Zealand, marking as it does one of the first significant world events both countries took part in (the first day of the campaign is celebrated as ANZAC Day, the major remembrance holiday in this part of the world).

Some inspiration to credit for this story:

Its title comes from a wonderful piece of music, _The Lark Ascending, _by Ralph Vaughan Williams, which was composed in 1914 and, to me, symbolises perfectly the innocence lost in war. You can listen to it on youtube - it's just magical and so moving, especially when you think about what was about to happen to the world the composer knew. The composer in turn was inspired by the poem of the same name by George Meredith, from which I plan to take the titles of the various chapters of the story, including this prologue. Finally, for the title image I used on Tumblr, I've borrowed a painting by Vincent van Gogh, _Wheatfield with a Lark_.


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